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White his shroud as the mountain snow,
Which bewept to the grave did go,
With true-love showers.
King. How do you, pretty lady?
Oph. Well, God’ield you! They say, the owl was a baker's daughter. Lord, we know what we are, but know not what we may be. God be at your table !
King. Conceit upon her father.
Oph. Pray, let us have no words of this; but when they ask you, what it means, say you this:
Good morrow, 'tis Saint Valentine's day,
All in the morning betime,
To be your Valentine :
Then up he rose, and don'd his clothes,
And dupp'd the chamber door;
Never departed more.
King. Pretty Ophelia !
By Gis, and by Saint Charity,
Alack, and fye for shame!
By cock, they are to blame.
Quoth she, before you tumbled me,
An thou hadst not come to my bed.
King. How long hath she been thus ?
Oph. I hope, all will be well. We must be patient : but I cannot choose but weep, to think, they should lay him i’the cold ground: My brother shall know of it, and so I thank you for your good counsel. Come, my coach! Good night, ladies; good night, sweet ladies: good night, good night.
[Exit. · King. Follow her close; give her good watch, I pray you.
[Erit Horatio. O! this is the poison of deep grief; it springs All from her father's death: And now behold, O Gertrude, Gertrude, When sorrows come, they come not single spies, But in battalions! First, her father slain ; Next, your son gone; and he most violent author Of his own just remove: The people muddied, Thick and unwholsome in their thoughts and whispers, For good Polonius' death; and we have done but
greenly, In hugger-mugger to inter bim: Poor Ophelia Divided from herself, and her fair judgment; Without the which we are pictures, or mere beasts. Last, and as much containing as all these, Her brother is in secret come from France : Feeds on his wonder, keeps himself in clouds, And wants not buzzers to infect his ear With pestilent speeches of his father's death;
Wherein necessity, of matter beggar'd,
[A noise within. Queen. Alack! what noise is this?
Enter a Gentleman.
Gent. Save yourself, my lord ;
Queen. How cheerfully on the false trail they cry!
Enter LAERTES armed ; Danes following.
[They retire without the door.
Laer. I thank you :-keep the door.–O thou vile
king, Give me my father.
Queen. Calmly, good Laertes
me bastard ;
King. What is the cause, Laertes,
Laer. Where is my father?
Laer. How came he dead ? I'll not be juggled with:
King. Who shall stay you?
Laer. My will, not all the world's :
King. Good Laertes,
If you desire to know the certainty
Laer. None but his enemies.
King. Why, now you speak
Danes. [Within.] Let her come in.
Enter Ophelia, fantastically dressed with straws and
Oph. They bore him barefac'd on the bier ;